Page 39 of When the Storm Breaks
Eventually, I drift into a broken, restless sleep, grief making a home deep inside me. The floor’s cold tile presses against my cheek, and I find myself silently begging the earth to open up and swallow me whole.
Chapter 16
Haiyden
The Christmas music started too goddamn early this morning.
7:00 a.m. early.
From the moment Chase opened his eyes, he’s been on a mission. Cabinets slamming. Vacuum roaring, banging into my door by 9:00 a.m.
It’s been hours of chaos, and the noise, the pace, the cheer—it’s killing me.
I started cleaning my room. Not because I have to, but because it’s the only thing that makes sense right now.
The happiness spilling out of the living room feels like it’s suffocating me.
I fucking hate Christmas.
It didn’t always feel like this, but this year, it fell apart fast.
I canceled. Thought I could tuck myself away at home like it’s just another day. Made it clear I didn’t want to see my parents.
They made it just as clear they’re moving on. Celebrating without me.
I just feel detached from all of it.
Chase is on another frequency entirely, taking the holiday way too seriously. Overdoing it like he thinks the sentiment can fix things. Like he believes it’ll change anything.
I shake it off, realizing I’m spiraling.
Finishing my room doesn’t fix anything, but it keeps my hands busy.
When I move into the living room, I start straightening the bookshelf, adjusting the throw pillows. Chase already cleaned in here, but I need something to do. So I move around like I’m accomplishing something, even though it’s aimless. Just me pretending.
Chase is in the kitchen, chopping something, but I can feel his eyes on me. I don’t know if it’s curiosity or pity. I don’t care.
“You don’t have to hate Christmas, you know,” he says quietly, the rhythm of the knife punctuating his words.
I don’t answer, and I’m sure he feels the air shift between us.
He sighs, shifting his focus to the cutting board.
“Listen, Haiyden. It’s tough, but you’re going to have to deal with it someday.”
“It’s dealt with,” I snap, final enough to kill the conversation before it starts.
“No, it’s not,” Chase says, setting the knife down and finally looking at me. “You know it’s not. Take your time, but don’t let it ruin your life.”
Then he picks the knife back up and starts chopping again, like he didn’t just drop a bomb in the middle of the room.
Still, I don’t respond.
I just keep moving things around in the living room mindlessly,going through the motions until there’s nothing left to fix.
Then I head into the kitchen, brushing past Chase without a word. I grab plates and silverware, arrange them neatly on the table.
Anything to keep my hands busy. Anything to shut my mind up.
